


Bow Window

by redrevolutionary



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redrevolutionary/pseuds/redrevolutionary
Summary: More noticeable was the instrument. She sat perched on the edge of a wooden stool, leaning into a cello. Her eyes were closed, her lips in a firm pressed line, focused on the music she was making. She swayed slightly, feeling the movement of the piece in her being. Her fingers pressed into the fingerboard, the vibrato evident in how she pulled herself from the instrument and back in. The bow glided over the strings with such confidence, never fearful of a screech or catch. I couldn’t help but watch.She was magnificent.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Bow Window

**Author's Note:**

> Hello !! Thank you for clicking. I wrote this almost a year ago and I finally decided that after reworking it a hundred times I wanted someone else to see it. I've been in a bit of a rut and reworking small things like this where I've already done most of the leg work helped me get back in the groove. I hope you enjoy !!

It was sort of like people watching. Y’know, it was interesting to see other people go about their lives, living inside their own bubble. People have different ticks that you can pick up on. He bites his nails when he’s not typing, she will consistently pull a strand of hair behind her ear as it’s barely too short to stay put. I liked people watching. People’s habits could say more about them than their actual words- you can’t fake your subconscious activities. You show who you truly are with your habits, conscious or not. The bravest of men show their sensitivity, the gentlest of souls demonstrate their anger. It’s fascinating. You know the ins and outs of someone without hearing a word. 

So, it was sort of like getting to know her. By watching her. Alone. 

Okay, that sounds bad. It wasn’t creepy or malicious or anything, I swear. She had moved into the house next door at the end of February. She’d had to fight the ice on the driveway while getting boxes into the garage. Why someone would choose to move to  _ Illinois  _ in the midst of winter was beyond me. Why not now, edging into the summer, the heat there but not unbearable yet? 

At first it seemed like a couple, but soon enough the presumed boyfriend disappeared. I’d sometimes catch his car in front of my property on holidays. That was when I picked up that they looked quite similar and maybe he wasn’t some mysterious partner but instead a totally normal brother. Sometimes watching could lead to false positives. 

It didn’t help that we had never properly met. I was very much an outsider in the neighborhood, inheriting the house from my late grandparents. I’d existed in this house since I was a kid; it all sort of felt the same within the walls. The neighborhood, however, changed drastically during my teen years and nearly everyone I would have known from my youth either died or moved. I didn’t speak with many of the neighbors (the only really being an elderly couple three doors down) and she appeared to do the same. 

The house was next door, but there was both of our driveways distancing the buildings themselves. It happened that my office was what budded up beside her living room (or presumed living room, I guess. It was the room with a couch and armchair and piano.) Her curtains were almost always open in the large side window now, allowing sunlight to bathe the room. Any onlooker could have seen into almost the entirety of the space. 

With that, it all sort of started by accident. I was working in my office, preparing the email to my agent that I needed just  _ one more week _ to get the next rewrites of the play to her. I’d given the same request last week so some extra schmoozing was needed this time. I was already preparing to read her response.  _ You haven’t published anything in over a year, Adam. The short stories work well online, but this has got to be more structured if you’re going to get it produced. _ I’d been staring at the screen for no less than 4 hours and my eyes had long felt the strain. I pulled up my glasses, digging my palm into my eyes, and pushed myself away from the desk.  _ I just need a minute to breathe.  _ Still sitting in the chair, I looked out the window. The sky was pastel watercolor- the white of the clouds blended into the blue and back again like brushstrokes across the treetops. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as I pushed myself closer to the glass. I watched the white swirls pass for a moment before a swooping bird caught my attention, dipping down down down to the side window ledge. 

Now I could see her in her living room. I’d never watched her, I promise, this is not some strange obsession. It was always passing glances and barely there glimpses before now. Her hair was tied atop her head, falling out of the messy cocoon of curls. A tank top was snug to her plump frame along with her spandex shorts. She’d looked like she just returned from a run, flushed with a feeling of the “runner’s high”.

More noticeable was the instrument. She sat perched on the edge of a wooden stool, leaning into a cello. Her eyes were closed, her lips in a firm pressed line, focused on the music she was making. She swayed slightly, feeling the movement of the piece in her being. Her fingers pressed into the fingerboard, the vibrato evident in how she pulled herself from the instrument and back in. The bow glided over the strings with such confidence, never fearful of a screech or catch. I couldn’t help but watch. 

She was magnificent.

I watched for a moment more, seeing her bring the bow off the strings. She hesitated. I could only imagine the last note hanging in the air around her, reverberating off the walls, the window. I could see the smile on her face materialize. She blinked her eyes open, happy with her performance. I felt myself smile too. It was mystifying seeing her bring the music to life. She turned her head slightly, watching the sunlight stream in and cast her shadow onto the wooden floors. She looked up and through the window.

Caught. 

I waved, half-assed.  _ How do you get out of watching your neighbor in their window?  _ I watched her eyes widen as she drew in the situation. Man who lives next door just stared at you through the window and is smiling back at you.  _ You look like a goddamn stalker, Adam.  _ I panicked.  _ Explain what you were doing.  _ I mimicked her bowing, my other hand holding up my pretend instrument. Her expression softened a little, her face resetting to neutral every so slightly. She looked a little confused by my gesture, but not entirely disturbed.

I mouthed _beautiful. Your music is beautiful._ I wanted to say _you look beautiful making music_ but the former would have to suffice given the latter would only add to the _stalker_ representation. A light flush colored her cheeks, mouthing back _thank you_ with the _tiniest_ smile before waving again and departing further into the house. Maybe not the smoothest way to spy on one’s neighbor, but at least she didn’t seem like she was going to call the cops on me.

I turned back to the computer, the screen having gone dark in my delightful distraction. I pulled myself back in, logging on, finishing the email, and  _ actually  _ rewriting an  _ entire scene in the play.  _ It was unexpected but not unappreciated. As dusk drew in, a little movement caught my eye. There she was, pulling the curtains closed for the evening.

Behind the fabric, I swear, she still had a little flush.

________________________

The next day, it was the piano. 

After working through the night on the play, I walked through the morning in a daze. I had noticed, much later than I should have, how disorganized the office truly was. Paper folders stacked up on the desk, the open filing cabinet, at least a week’s worth of coffee cups scattered on any and all flat surfaces. It really was a wreck. 

I pulled the blinds up, appreciating the extra light in the room. Hell, half an hour later, I had the window open as I tried to put organization back into the room. All file folders had to be put in a place  _ away  _ from the work area. All mugs must return to the kitchen for soaking. The floor needed to be  _ swept.  _

I hadn’t thought about looking out the window almost the entire time I was cleaning. It wasn’t until I started to sit down at the desk that I noticed her, sitting at the piano underneath the window. The curtains, as usual, were pulled back to reveal her sitting there. This time, she was in a sundress, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders. Her skirt splayed out around her thighs, the fabric pooling on the leather seat. This time, she had sheet music stacked along the piano. She scanned over the notes, her hands as strong and confident as they had been on the board of the cello. She bowed her head every now and then, feeling the reverberations of the strings inside in her fingers. She put all her weight into the piano at the swells. She hovered above the keys at the  _ pianissimo. _ She was smirking- she knew she was filling her home with lovely music. It had to have been lovely. 

Before long, I found myself sitting in my desk chair, turned towards the window. I watched her again, this time with even less shame than before. Again, I was enraptured by how she so calmly put all her fervor and soul into an instrument. Without even hearing it, I could tell that she rarely missed her mark. She was skilled, possibly a professional, at least a musician in a community orchestra.  _ Maybe that was why she moved here.  _

All at once, I noticed her rise from the piano bench and look through her window directly into mine. She was smiling. She wasn’t intimidated by my presence. Instead, she raised up a piece of paper.  _ Did you like that one?  _ was scrawled across it in all caps. 

She hadn’t just written it. She knew that I would watch her play again.

I smiled, mouthing  _ yes.  _ She laughed before looking down and producing another note.  _ What’s your name?  _

I smiled before realizing  _ shit, you have to respond.  _ I looked around the newly reorganized room and instantly realized I had no idea where I put printer paper. I dug through the top of the filing cabinet, producing a measly three sheets. I scrawled  _ Adam  _ on the first one before holding it up in the open window. 

She smiled, pointing to her own.  _ Ellen  _ was written in this pretty flowing lettering, still all caps. She flipped over the sheet, revealing another note.  _ Do you play an instrument? _

I turned over my own sheet.  _ No, I just enjoy  _ _ your _ _ the music.  _ She smiled with that same light flush from the day before, cheerfully communicating through these papers messages. It was sort of sweet, like something from a movie.

We continued in our learned routine for a couple days. She would sit in the living room in the late afternoon and fill her house with lovely music from the piano, the cello, the guitar, and occasionally the  _ triangle  _ (she was just as funny as she was talented). She moved here from Washington (the state, not DC) for work. She was a professional cellist (called it) and worked the morning shift at a music store in the city. She told me about her family (yup, the “possible boyfriend” was definitely the twin brother). I told her about my play and short stories. She even  _ read one of my stories.  _ She gave the loving review of  _ I cried when you killed Callie, fuck you, it was beautiful  _ the next day.

It was always just a couple pieces of paper, never more. It was nice. It felt like some intimate connection when we hadn’t actually ever “met”. I was content with just that. 

________________________

I really fucking suck as compliements. If you could even call it that.

She had been with her guitar that day. She looked straight out of a rock band with wild hair and band tee and ripped jeans, snug on her hips but open and loose cascading down her legs. It was an acoustic but you could tell from how she bounded onto the couch that the performance drew from Led Zeppelin more than Taylor Swift. She whipped around, flinging her hair, her guitar, her entire body in different directions. She was a performer whether she would admit it or not. 

Of course I had seen her impromptu performance while reworking the climax of the play. I had just gotten stuck on the big soliloquy when I first saw her spin past the window. It was at this point I had stopped hiding my growing attraction to her. She was incredibly beautiful- curves and dips everywhere with crinkled eyed smiles and falling hair. But other than that was the beauty she  _ made-  _ the way that she felt music was intoxicating. You can’t help but be attracted to that. 

In a bit of courage, I wrote  _ You are so confident.  _ on a sheet of paper. Confident to play, confident to perform. I held it up to the window as soon as she finished. In that moment I realized I’d made a mistake. 

Her face turned just the slightest shade of sour, barely a pucker. She scrawled quickly  _ like what  _ and held it for my view. I was confused.  _ Just because you put on such a performance and don’t care if anyone is watching you. You don’t care what you look like. _

This did something. And not a good something. Now I could see a little bit of anger in it.  _ Are you gonna tell me I’m pretty  _ _ for a fat girl _ _? _ She underlined it. I could tell this was an ugly thing. She was trying to spit that at me. 

I tried to backtrack.  _ I never said that. You’re pretty period.  _ She didn’t believe me. She rolled her eyes as she stood and walked towards the window. She was mouthing something, too fast in the shadowed dusk for me to read. I only caught  _ men  _ and  _ good guys  _ but the expression did not give the impression that this was a positive connection. I was frustrated. I’d complimented her and she turned it into something mean.  _ I like you, dammit,  _ I thought. 

I held up another note. Stupid.  _ Why are you mad at me? _

Fucking stupid. 

She shook her head,  _ pissed.  _ This time I could read a  _ Fuck you, Adam  _ clear as day as she closed the curtains. 

I taped a note to my window that night. 

_ I’m sorry. _

________________________

I hadn’t seen her play all day. The curtains were wide open but there was no movement inside.  _ She must be at work late.  _ The rain was coming down pretty good outside, leaving my blinds barely cracked throughout most of the afternoon. I reread the story Ellen had complimented-  _ Into the Raging Storm.  _ I hadn’t even looked at it since I’d had it published. It was simple- sisters stuck at the family farmhouse. The plot wasn’t what mattered, it was the  _ connection  _ of the two women. It was sacrifice and love. It was trying to be bigger than yourself. It was one of the last works I really felt  _ passionate  _ about. I could have written Callie over and over again, all different tales of this one woman. Maybe she was a little bit like Ellen- fervid and driven and full of life. Giving her all to life. 

Headlights flashed through my window as they turned into her driveway. I watched as Ellen slammed her door, pulling her cello case behind her. She fought with her keys at the door. She was  _ angry.  _

She disappeared into the house, reappearing a moment later as she less than gently placed the cello, still encased, in the corner before crumpling onto the couch. She was in a pressed blouse and dress pants, patent leather heels still on her feet. I could see her brow drawn together, a mixture of anger and frustration and disappointment. Tears threatened to spill over in her eyes.

_ A failed audition.  _

I didn’t watch her. This was private. She deserved to hold her dignity and not have onlookers to her mourning. I knew the feeling too well- _I'm sorry, Adam, it's just not what we're for right now._ I went back to work, revising the final scene (again). 

An hour later, I glanced out the window. She was sitting at her wooden stool, the cello in her hands. She wasn’t playing. She just sat there, her fingers pressing into the strings without ever moving the bow. She was tentative, hesitant. I’d never seen her so cautious with her hands. All confidence in her music making was gone. She didn’t sway. She didn’t feel the swell. She sat, stick straight and timid, her cello now a dislodged piece of herself. 

It might have been one of the most heartbreaking things I'd seen. The audition, or a person at the audition, had taken away something so ingrained into her. They had robbed her of herself.

I couldn’t stand it. 

I dug through the filing cabinet for an envelope. I pulled a sheet of paper directly from the printer, refusing to waste time trying to find another stack somewhere in the drawers. I wrote fast enough that the ink smeared underneath my hand as I wrote.

_ Your music is beautiful. It’s obvious you feel every note you produce. You understand the movements and bring them to life. Anyone who can’t see the talent and passion you bring into a piece is absolutely insane. I can’t imagine not seeing you make music every day. I’m also sorry for being a dick. I would love to make up for it sometime. _

I didn’t sign it. She would know I left it. Throwing on the closest shoes I could find, I braved the rain in just the old hoodie I’d had in the office. It was unusually cold for May. I ignored it as I marched down the sidewalk and up to her door. I debated knocking, giving it to her myself. Instead, possibly through cowardice or convenience, I slipped the envelope into the screen door. She would find it at some point. Maybe tonight when she left to get takeout. Maybe tomorrow morning on her way to work. It didn’t matter, I just couldn’t be here when it happened. Too awkward. Even for a grown man, I felt such a teenage humiliation thinking about Ellen reading my note.

I retreated to my own home. I left my rain soaked hoodie in the entry, deciding to make a coffee to warm up from the cold. I found the mug from this morning still sitting in the sink, not having made its way to the dishwasher just yet. I rinsed it out and stuck it under the Keurig, popping in a pod of coffee. I found that the sugar was running low, probably due to my almost constant inhabitation in the house.  _ I guess I won’t be asking the neighbor for a cup of sugar anytime soon _ . I opted for extra creamer instead. While still in the kitchen, the light in the hallway flashed. Someone was at the door _.  _

_ Shit. _

I went to the door, peaking through the peephole first. I knew who would be on the other side, it was merely a learned habit. I unbolted the door to see Ellen, now in a sweatshirt and leggings, her hair tied up in the now familiar mess of a bun. Her hair fell out around her face, sticking to her skin in the rain. Her mascara had run a little- whether it was the weather or her tears I wasn’t sure. 

_ Hey, you were definitely a dick before but I also might have jumped to conclusions because so many people just see me as the fat girl, I know you were trying to be genuine even if it kind of backfired. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for your note, it really does mean a lot. I really feel like I’ve gotten to know you in the past week and it was very kind of you to encourage me. You went out of your way to be nice to me, and, well, I would love to get to know you more.  _

I smiled. I nodded. She truly was every bit as enamoring and vivacious in person. I could see in her eyes that she was waiting for my response. Upon reflex, my fingers started to move before I thought further. I held up a finger,  _ hold on,  _ and grabbed the closest paper I could find. I settled on the kitchen notepad hanging on the fridge. 

I almost ran back to the door. I scrawled a quick  _ yes, I would love that.  _ I almost showed it to her before I realized that there was an explanation needed beforehand. 

On top of the pad, I wrote  _ I’m deaf. _

I handed her the notepad, watching her read it over. Confusion forced her brow to furrow. She looked back up at me.  _ Can you understand me? _

I smiled, holding out my hand. Flustered, she gave me back the notepad quickly. I laughed.  _ I read lips very well. I lost my hearing when I was a teenager, car accident. Started off gradual but was completely gone by the time I was 20. _

She took that in for a moment. She met my eyes again.  _ How did you hear me playing? _

I smiled.  _ I could tell by how you felt the music. I didn’t need to hear it to know that it was beautiful.  _

She flushed a little. She looked down. She was searching for the next thing to say. I caught the little twinkle in her eye as she held out her hand for the notepad. Hesitantly, I handed it over to her. She scribbled her phone number onto it.

_ I would still love to do dinner sometime. You are someone incredibly special, Adam. _

I smiled, holding onto the paper. Before I could even bid her goodbye, she flipped up her hood and set back towards her own home. I watched her bound up the stairs, catching her eyes as she stepped back inside. I closed the door, looking back down at the note in my hand. I almost raced back to the office to grab my phone. I plunked her phone number into the contacts quickly, mistyping it twice before getting it right. I looked out the window, seeing her sitting back at the piano, a smirk still on her face. She was sitting with an excitement, a little giddiness that she knew what a  _ performer  _ she was. She had no music, going solely off of what she knew. Her fingers were confident as she pushed the fallboard back off the keys. I decided one text couldn’t hurt. 

_ I can’t wait to see this song.  _


End file.
